Between Recovery and Resilience in North Carolina
Federico Gutierrez sits outside his home, damaged by Hurricane Helene. He now lives in a camper donated by a stranger from Indiana. Gutierrez is working to rebuild his life and home while continuing his mechanic business. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
An immigrant small-business owner defies the odds after Hurricane Helene and inspires a new generation.
Editor’s note: Photojournalist Kaoly Gutierrez, 21, spent three years documenting her grandfather’s life in Swannanoa, NC. In the aftermath of Hurricane Helene, she witnessed the resilience of her grandfather and her community as they came together to rebuild.
In 1999, Federico Gutierrez left his job as a taxi driver in Mexico City, in search of a better life for himself and his family. The journey north, by bus and by foot, to Swannanoa, NC, an old Appalachian mill town, took about 15 days.
He arrived “como todos,” like millions of Mexican nationals who migrated to the United States by walking across the southern border without papers. When he reached Swannanoa, he had no cash in his small backpack, just a change of clothes. He landed a factory job the same day he arrived. Relatives in Mexico wired him money to tide him over until his first paycheck.
Twenty-six years later, he is the owner of an auto repair shop and a legal U.S. resident.
“In coming to the United States, you lose more than you were supposed to have gained,” said Gutierrez, his eyes welling. “You lose your youth and time with your family,” in Mexico.
The challenges of rebuilding a life from scratch 2,000 miles from home prepared Gutierrez for unexpected anguish. On Sept. 27, 2024, less than half a mile from his home, Hurricane Helene swelled the Swannanoa River, destroying everything he and his wife had built, including at least $10,000 worth of equipment for his business and about 40 of the 60 backyard chickens they raised for their eggs. The couple had no renters’ insurance. Even if Gutierrez had business interruption insurance, policies don’t cover the loss of businesses ruined by floodwaters.
Gutierrez started the business through word of mouth among neighbors, making extra money because factory shifts were limited. And he estimated that since Helene, his business revenues have declined 80%. Helene caused economic losses in the Southeast of at least $225 billion, making it one of the costliest natural disasters in U.S. history, according to AccuWeather.
The Swannanoa River flows alongside Historic Biltmore Village, an area heavily impacted by flooding from Hurricane Helene. The hurricane altered the landscape, widening the river’s path. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
The loss of all he’d built was a huge setback, but Gutierrez said his experiences as a migrant gave him the strength to face challenges and keep going. “You mature more to be able to withstand what life brings along, particularly in this country,” he said.
Recovery from a natural disaster such as Hurricane Helene or the recent wildfires in Los Angeles is difficult for small business owners, who cope not only with damage to their property and inventory but also to the surrounding roads and water and sewage systems. Their customers and employees might not be able to reach them, even if owners manage to get their businesses operational.
Gutierrez and owners of reopened Latino businesses in Swannanoa — including a restaurant, a salon and a tire shop — are exceptional. According to FEMA, among businesses that close for at least five days after a natural disaster, 90% fail within a year after a disaster. And immigrants are more likely than Americans born in the United States to own their own businesses, according to researchers at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Data from the 2018-2022 American Community Survey indicate that about 9.7% of all North Carolina working adults are self-employed (both incorporated and unincorporated businesses) and 12.2 % of those people are immigrants.
***
I’ve only seen my grandpa fully grieve once in my life, and that was when my mother died. We went to the hospital and had to look at her lifeless body on the table. The moment he stepped into the room and saw her there, he began shaking uncontrollably. I thought he was about to have a heart attack.
As a child, and even until recently, I always had nightmares of the world ending. I hated movies in which this would be depicted — streets overcome by tsunamis, land everywhere on fire, just a crisis beyond our control. The rawness of Mother Nature herself. I feared that if I watched it, it would somehow make it real. Even as an adult, I still felt that way. I knew that if the end of the world happened, I would want to be surrounded by my family and loved ones — huddled together, holding each other like animals do when they die together.
The other thing I feared was that we wouldn’t get the chance to do that. I always worried the most about my grandpa. In my mind, I thought, "If I can at least get to my grandpa, things won’t be so bad. I can take care of him." Not that he’s some feeble old man — he’s only 65, and when I really look, I truly see that untamed spirit in him that must have been most prominent in his youth, though it’s now covered by layers of life and pain.
My grandpa has always been a strong man. He raised two daughters (my mom and my aunt), both of whom are just as strong. He came from Mexico to the United States by himself. He’s always had a strong character, with toughness and resilience that, to some, seems impossible. I used to, and sometimes still do, compare my grandpa to a rock in a current — he’s strong and seems unwavering in the midst of the stream. What we forget, though, is that water dissolves and slowly erodes even the toughest of rock.
Federico Gutierrez outside of the camper where he sleeps while he builds his new home. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
A new life in the U.S.
Gutierrez grew up in Mexico City, the second in a family of seven children. His parents supported themselves in part by selling milk from their cows to neighbors. The small subsistence farm also was home to chickens, goats, horses and lambs. When Gutierrez migrated to the United States, he left behind his first wife and two daughters.
Since arriving in North Carolina, Gutierrez has remarried. His wife, Martha Calderón, 64, is a retired housekeeper at the historic Omni Grove Park Inn and Spa in Asheville.
In the beginning, Gutierrez only knew one person in Western North Carolina, a cousin with whom he lived and who has since returned to Mexico. He said he felt powerless and isolated then, living in a culture where he did not know the language or customs. He thought mostly of how he needed to survive, earn money and pay rent.
Martha Calderón, Federico Gutierrez's wife, lounges in her bed. Gutierrez and Martha met after Kaoly’s mom and Martha worked as housekeepers and became friends. They have been together for 15 years. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
Photos of Gutierrez's loved ones still hang on the walls of his damaged home — the same home he has lived in for the last 15 years. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
He had learned car repair from fellow taxi drivers when he lived in Mexico City, and started the auto-repair business three years after arriving in the United States. Despite his role offering affordable auto repair in an area with limited public transit, Gutierrez said he doesn’t feel more important than anyone else in his community. “I feel like everyone’s important.”
The advantages of self-employment, he said, are that you’re not forced to work on something that you don’t like under pressure. “Here you have more freedom because you know what you’re doing and you work at your own pace.” One added bonus is that he works mostly for friends.
On a recent weekday morning, Jackeline Bautista, 44, pulled up to Gutierrez's property, and hopped out of her Jeep, carrying part of a new muffler. Gutierrez was fixing her 2005 Subaru Impreza. Bautista has been a customer for 15 years. She herself is an immigrant and an entrepreneur. Originally from Venezuela, she came to Western North Carolina from Miami with Job Corps, a free education and vocational training for young people ages 16 to 24. She now owns a cleaning and tax preparation business, employing 22 people.
“He’s the most honest person I’ve ever known,” Bautista said with a wide smile, adding that Gutierrez regularly gives her affordable workarounds to fix her vehicle. “He'll give you options where other mechanics don't.”
To fix her Impreza, Gutierrez had first recommended she go to a junkyard to find an affordable replacement muffler. Because her car was so old, the junkyard had no replacement parts, so Bautista went to O'Reilly Auto Parts in nearby Black Mountain to buy a new one. “Other mechanics, they automatically want you to buy a new piece,” she said.
Gutierrez repairs a tire in his makeshift backyard car shop. Depending on the job, he gets help from his assistants. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
Gutierrez's hands, stained from working on a car, show the marks of his labor. His time as a taxi driver led him to learn the essential skill of car repair — a skill he still relies on for his daily livelihood. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
Gutierrez was visiting family in Mexico when he received news of the flood on the morning of Sept. 28. He was walking in a park in Morelia, Michoacán, a colonial city in Central Mexico and Calderón’s hometown, when he received a phone call from a family member in Asheville, telling him his home and business had been destroyed.
The couple had planned to drive back to Swanannoa but, worried about their property, tried to catch a plane to North Carolina. Flights had been canceled due to Hurricane Helene so they ended up returning as soon as they could in their Honda Odyssey 2006. The 2,000-mile journey took 40 hours, with stops at Super 8 motels.
***
I think about moments like this when something so big, like a hurricane, happens, and I remember that my grandfather is not a rock. Although he wasn’t there to witness everything firsthand, like so many others, the pain he felt was no less. In fact, I sometimes fear that the situation could have been even worse for him if he had been there, and that my heart wouldn’t have been able to bear it, especially knowing how stubborn the man is.
When he finally came back from Mexico, my grandpa seemed shocked but unmoved at the surface. He grieved a lot when no one was looking. He holds up a strong front because that’s what he's known, that’s what he feels he can give during the time, especially when there doesn’t seem to be anything left.
He was eager to get back to work and kept insisting on going back to his house. Of course, it was difficult for him to understand that most of his tools were gone and that the house was condemned and deemed toxic. Still is, though he has the camper next to it now. He’s always been a stubborn man, not wanting to leave what was his home for many years. I understand where he comes from though.
Over time, after scrounging for any tools that could be saved, he got back to work — starting from scratch, doing small tasks like oil and brake changes.
Asheville is a diverse mix of people — some who grew up there and others who uprooted their lives and now call it home. Asheville was once seen as a place where natural disasters were unlikely. After Helene, that sense of security vanished. The storm forced people to confront the harsh realities of the climate crisis. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
The destruction left everyone heartbroken, especially at Gutierrez's home — a place filled with memories of family gatherings and celebrations. The hurricane’s widespread damage to the town and surrounding areas left the community in shock. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
The Recovery
Swannanoa, home to more than 5,000 people, 10% of whom are Latino, lies in a valley ringed by mountains. People came from across the country to help survivors after Helene. Hundreds of strangers donated their time, possessions and money. Five months after the deluge, Gutierrez wears donated clothes and lives on his property in a camper a stranger from Indiana gave him. The foundation of the one-story home that Gutierrez and Calderón rent is cracked and its walls are speckled with mold and weakened. The couple has no running water in the camper. Winter warmth comes from a small space heater powered by a generator. They flush the home’s toilets by gathering water in buckets from the river. They take showers and do laundry at a FEMA care station three miles north.
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Swannanoa, named after the river that runs through it, bore among the worst destruction of Hurricane Helene. President Trump has visited it twice, once while still on the campaign trail and once after taking office, on Jan. 24. Both times, he called for the elimination of FEMA. He claims the federal agency is too bureaucratic and slow to respond; however a year earlier — in Jan. 2024 — the agency underwent a major overhaul of its protocols to ensure faster and more comprehensive response to survivors.
As Helene roared through North Carolina, the river, normally less than two feet deep, peaked during the storm at more than 27 feet, according to the United States Geological Survey.
Flooding and winds flattened homes, upended trees and cars, washed out roads and left a trail of mud, debris and black mold still visible in the community.
The crow of roosters from Gutierrez's yard greets visitors driving onto his block. The neighborhood where he lives and works has far more empty lots filled with debris than it does habitable homes. A company contracted by Buncombe County was set up in a water-damaged fire department substation, offering applications in both Spanish and English for free removal of debris, including fallen trees, damaged vehicles and demolition debris, from private properties.
Western North Carolina and Asheville mutual aid culture began after the hurricane — neighbors helping neighbors. This made people acknowledge they need to have each others’ back. Asheville seems more resilient now, but it is still in grief, with a lot more recovery ahead. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
Much of the area remains in ruins, despite ongoing reconstruction, bridge rebuilding and areas being cleared out, thanks to the efforts of workers and volunteers. Debris is still scattered everywhere, and the cleanup and reconstruction will take years. Many parts of town feel frozen in time. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
“Everything was lost,” said Alex Orellana, 41, owner of Swannanoa Tire Shop, as he finished unloading tires from a flatbed truck a few blocks from Gutierrez's yard. Floodwaters rose past doorways and business insurance didn’t cover the losses. Orellana, who immigrated years ago from El Salvador, said he relied on loans from friends to get back in business after a four-month closure. “We didn't receive any help if we're being quite honest,” said his daughter, Ana, 18. “We had to rebuild on our own.”
After any natural disaster, businesses are largely expected to rely on their own resources to rebuild as grants and low-interest loans from the federal government “(are) comparatively limited in both scope and amount,” according to a 2023 report from the Congressional Research Office.
Indeed, on Oct. 15, less than three weeks after Helen hit, the federal Small Business Administration ran out of money to assist small businesses. Two months later, President Biden approved $2.2 billion to be infused into the SBA’s Disaster Loan program.
By then, Gutierrez, who received $750 in “serious needs assistance” from FEMA to cover food costs, was already back in business. He said he has not applied for additional assistance from FEMA, instead relying on donations organized by family members to replace the lost equipment and help from an array of local charities in the Asheville area that continue to offer clothing, water and fresh food, as well as baby and menstrual supplies to storm survivors.
A warehouse stocked with household supplies, organized by Poder Emma, served as a place where people could stop by and get what they needed. Several donation hubs run by nonprofits popped up around town, providing essentials like food, water and toilet paper to the community. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
Poder Emma hosted distribution days to hand out basic supplies and food and to help fill out FEMA applications. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
Gutierrez said he feels lucky, lucky that he and Martha weren’t home when Helene hit, lucky for his partnership with his wife, lucky for the love and support of his friends and family. Rebuilding is hard, but not as hard as arriving as a younger man in North Carolina alone so many years ago, he said.
And even though he is still in survival mode, Gutierrez believes he is better off than people who were impacted by the Los Angeles wildfires. Fire destroys entirely, he said. Floods, he said, eventually end. And if floodwaters try to take you, you can hold on to something until the waters recede.
***
I sometimes sit and silently observe my grandpa, watching the way he moves through the world. I notice that his body is not what it used to be. I notice that when he turns a wrench in a car, he now slightly struggles and doesn’t have enough strength. Of course, he would never admit this. I notice how much weight he’s been losing, his body almost looking like bones underneath all the layers of clothes he wears. In between the sentences and witty remarks, in his eyes, I notice the pause and imprint of the life he’s lived. The waters have slowly eroded him.
Yet, even through the pain, even after losing everything, he hasn’t lost his sense of humor or wit.
I’ve seen so many people grieve and fall into holes of despair, which is completely understandable — everyone has the right to grieve in their own way. But my grandpa was different. He kept going, bursting into random Pedro Infante songs whenever he had the chance. To me, that’s remarkable. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest moments, it’s possible to keep going, find joy and keep the spirit alive.
My grandpa is no stranger to rebuilding his life from the ground up, and perhaps that's why he doesn't let the weight of loss break him down. He just always says “Hay que echarle ganas.”
When you lose everything and your whole world is washed away, there really isn’t any other choice but to rebuild. Loss is a natural part of it. We have an innate instinct to survive, to keep striving, to build. But we aren’t creatures who can do it all alone; we are interconnected and that connection is what keeps our spirit alive.
I think that’s why I’ve taken these photos of my grandpa. In a way, these photographs are like fossils. They hold time, an imprint, a moment. They are proof that this was here, at least for a moment. People, moments, belongings and even your own body — they all go away. Through these photos, this is the way I can hold on, a way for me to understand.
All the houses on the south side of the river have been condemned, leaving them without electricity or city services until further notice. A member of the Gutierrez family took out a bank loan to buy the land where their damaged home stood. After Helene, the previous owner wanted to sell, and Gutierrez — who had nowhere else to go — saw it as his only option. This was before he had the camper. Gutierrez is a simple man at heart; all he wants is to live with his dogs, chickens and home, and to be able to work from there. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
These days, Gutierrez has been working and saving money to rebuild his home. He just wants to fully restore it and get some of his chickens and tools back. Photo by Kaoly Gutierrez for palabra
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Allison Salerno is a multimedia journalist based in Athens, Ga. Her work has been published in The New York Times and The Washington Post, among other places. She has spent a lot of time in Western North Carolina, both backpacking the Appalachian Trail and reporting as a freelancer on the Washington Post team deployed there after Hurricane Helene. She won an Ñ award in 2024 from the National Association of Hispanic Journalists for a piece on how Georgians are helping Venezuelan asylum seekers. Allison has also produced award-winning audio stories. You can find Allison on Instagram and at www.allisonbsalerno.com. @allisonbsalerno
Kaoly Gutierrez is a Mexican documentary photographer raised in the mountains of Southern Appalachia. She has spent most of her adult life working in construction. Without any formal art school training, she became drawn to photography in her spare time as a means of exploring people's stories and relating to the world around her. An internship in 2022-2023 provided her with invaluable insights, vocabulary and skills in the field. She primarily shoots documentary and portrait photography. For Kaoly, photographing is a natural way to facilitate interactions in her life; it is a means for both caring for herself and those around her through the attention she imbues through the lens. @kaolygtz
Valeria Fernández is an award-winning journalist, filmmaker and producer. She started her career at a small Spanish-language newspaper in Phoenix, Arizona, and quickly learned how to write for immigrant communities — rather than just about them. She transitioned to writing for English-language media, including The Guardian, Pacific Standard, Latino USA and PRX’s The World. Valeria won the American Mosaic Journalism Prize for her reporting on underrepresented communities. She is the managing editor of palabra, and the founder of Altavoz Lab, an organization that supports local journalists serving marginalized communities. @valfernandez